Poem of the Month - July 2018

‍‍‍‍‍‍We created a lifetime
in our own time
and I was free
within our delusions
that raised us up in passion
and bled us dry with contempt

We could have lived there forever
if it hadn't been our fate
to destroy the things we love
yet we somehow found some middle ground
I thought was indelibly etched into our veins

I held you up against the currents
that ached to drown you
in their self-destructive rage
and you told me you loved me
more than I could ever know
as you held yourself in limbo
on this precipice of life

Perhaps it would be too cliche
to say that once upon a time
I would have died for you

You were the breath that gave me life
when I didn't realise I wasn't breathing

I never considered
that the tides might turn
and I would find myself staring
down my demons
and losing myself to their siren songs

I've never been so close to that edge
never had to fight so hard
to keep my own breath
and save myself from going under

And I never thought I'd have to ask myself
"where were you?"
when I couldn't fight the dark alone

I never thought you'd let me down
after I spent so much time lifting you up

We don't talk anymore
but I still wonder where you were
when I was falling apart

© Indie Adams 2018

 



I can't stand it.
This nothing.

This eclipsed empty thing
that exists where you
used to weave ancient magics
into my aching chest
like an untamed beast
who prowled
through my black witch forest
scratching
and growling
and challenging my soul
to make sense of the contradictions
in my head
and the fraility of my hope
as something more than a tomb
for the future me
to weave flowers against in wait.

And fuck me
how you howled so malformed
and warped
like tiny,
gasping innocent dreams
I'd left behind in the moonlight
as if the language
we raged against
couldn't be restrained enough
within the mere vestige
of common tounge.

Only now
in this god forsaken (almost) silence
do I admit that you've spoiled me
in response to a feeling
that leaves me lurched over;
bent in the fetal position,
begging for the severity in honesty.

Nothing else is ever enough,
and I know,
somewhere deep inside of you,
you understand me
and that this need;
this integral yearning
to rip anything meaningful
from what we are,
is mutual.

God is dying.
God is dying right at this moment
in some angry,
repressed,
insistent death,
but neither of us can grieve
for who we were at 23
long enough to believe in it,
or him,
or who the goddess
nude in our longings
could have conceived
in a hopefully,
maybe one day
I'll wish upon a star
far, far away
for so much more
than what is in
me
(us)
today.

I don't believe you.
I can't comprehend that your passion;
your insatiable thirst for wonder
in a world full of maddness,
and tragedy,
and longing for the dragonflies
to spontaneously enchant us
lonley bleeding martyrs
if only for a second
within our desperate beating hearts-
has quelled
in complacency of circumstance.

I won't accept
that your fire has snuffed away
somewhere
between the dreay ashes of a morning fag
and the embers of a twice puffed procrastination
before class
has become winter and glass eyed
when I know damn well
I gave you every piece
of the most savage flames
that drive's my own existence
years ago
in a tangible manifestation
still alive in a destitute corner
of your bedroom.

Perhaps it's true
that I'm quite literally beating a dead horse
when I say I believe in your success,
but I'll keep trying.
I'll keep maiming my ego
in faith that one day you'll remember
who you really are,
and that you are
a force of fucking god damn nature
you silly,
gorgeous thing.

"Am here. Where ought I to be?"
"Home." - telegram sent by G. K. Chesterton to his wife, followed by her response
 
My path is trod without patience,
a map consulted time again.
Whatever be my penitence, I cannot see
where ought I am inclined to be.
 
The light is trifling and fierce
in its gruesome summer's way,
yet in its fading brings, to pierce,
a beauty giant and painful.
 
Crouched between a churchyard and
a house like many more
is the place where ought I am to be, at last.
Send a thankful text. Here is the library door.

        
her name was melancholy        
and she weighed heavy on my heart  
her quiet little song      
played in the background      
while the world was noisy      
and I felt I would fall apart      
       
when things settled      
I would feel her presence      
while she took tea alone      
she was not one for complaints      
no, no not ever      
     
her sorrow known within      
the notes she would leave      
woven inside my poetry      
otherwise nothing      
       
a soft spoken lady      
propriety in all things      
keeping things tidy was her passion  
no messy emotions allowed      
they are forbidden      
       
she kept watch like a proper nanny
ushering the tears back      
that threatened the skies inside      
shades of blue and depths of feeling  
her native tongue    
she speaks them most eloquently      
a resident here since I first began      
on a journey of discovery      
       
yes melancholy is her name      
grief without crying      
a heavy burden      
and we walk on silently     
       
       
       
       
 

           
climb into my pleasure zone  
the temperature is rising  
I felt you slip inside me  
my dearest soul's rider  
   
creaming on the celestial wavelengths  
I feel the vibe your sending    
I'm broadcasting right back to you privately  
picture me your favorite porno Queen  
little slut just begging for it  
then with your third eye perceive your Goddess  
I want to be dominated  
are you the man to give it to me?  
   
lay it down hard  
show me how you really feel  
this is history we're making  
as you enter feel me shudder  
when you at last you take what's yours  
all the lights in the heavens flicker  
it's time that we fucked  
getting down to business  
   
I've been playing with you  
to see just how far we've come  
my finger on the Earth's pulse  
internally pulsating in your orbit  
I need my warrior now  
in the body of my lover  
down for anything  
when things start popping off  
   
you speak with the grace of all the universes  
I want you to know i'm not your imagination  
i'm a real woman  
who speaks in pain and truths  
because believe me my King  
I've lived it  
   
i'm the first woman to ever be  
the rest bear some of my flavor  
but they're just shades of me  
this woman Raven is my portal  
an open channel  
always willing to transmit  
any of my messages  
if I close communications  
there's a reason for it  
   
for now let's feed our need  
the waters are clear  
and I am willing  
within our love making  
a new dawn is born  
get down inside this woman  
as we yawn, stretch and evolve